You Belong to Me
by justcallmesmitty
Summary: AU branching from 207/Prince of the Blood. Instead of signing Narcisse's edict, Francis manages to buy just a little more time and puts in motion a plan from which there is no return. Multi-chapter. Frary. Note: Rating may change as chapters develop.
1. Prologue (Francis)

_I woke up in the morning to a pale light tangled in your hair  
_ _I never wake before you, but this time I caught you sleeping there  
_ _Yes, you are my sunlight – you are my last breath of air  
_ _and I would try to hold it, I would try to keep the moment like a dying man I swear_

 _You belong to me  
_ _If you belong to anyone, you belong to me –  
_ _but I have no other place to keep you safe_

His skin still prickles as he enters the corridor, making his way down its stone walls and past the guards placed for his own safety.

 _Safety!_ He savors the irony of the word inside his head.

He realizes he has become anything _but_ safe.

Recalling Narcisse's words, he knows he has been lucky to be able to buy a few weeks' time before signing the edict into law: _You see this is no longer just about you. Your mother – your wife – will also suffer and die. And when your head is cut off, along with Catherine and Mary's, what do you suppose the nobles will do to your brothers? What will happen to your bastard son when you're not here to protect him? They will all be assassinated. Your child will not reach his first birthday. It will be the end of the Valois line._

He cannot let anyone die for his mistakes.

Lamentably, he has realized too late the man who has snaked his way into corrupt control of the Court. He did not heed his wife's understanding that Narcisse holds more wickedness than his son had, that he would not shy away even from the murder of innocents simply for the sake of teaching the king or the queen a lesson.

Too many times, she had asked him what kind of king he wanted to be. Too easily, he had let himself be compromised by his love for her and his desire to keep her safe.

And a compromised king is not a king at all.

* * *

He turns the corner, grateful to find the hallways empty. His family and the nobles have removed themselves from the chateau, taking advantage of the sun's warmth and of the opportunity to spend their time at the edge of the water. His footsteps pad along the passageway, taking the all-too-familiar steps to her rooms. There remains no other option.

He has failed.

 _You are king! Doesn't that count for something?_

He wishes it still did count, that what power he had hadn't been stripped from him by a man who desired the rule of France without the weight of its crown.

Shaking his head in anger, he pushes onward.

He knows he ought to have killed Narcisse when the opportunity presented itself – but he also knows that he never wanted to be the kind of king that his father had been.

If only his father hadn't been so reckless and ruthless … and _mad_.

Nonetheless, he ought to have killed Narcisse. Now, there is no way out.

 _If the people learn that you killed your father, they will never believe your queen didn't know it. Your heads will be on two pikes side by side. I know you're both very romantic, but I doubt this is the future together you had in mind._

He picks up the pace of his steps, cursing the endless labyrinth of passages built to connect different parts of the chateau over centuries. Just ahead, guards stand outside her door.

The guards bow in greeting and he raps lightly on the door, which opens after a few moments.

"Francis!" His mother exclaims, taking in the depths of his countenance that the guards nearby have never learned to see. "Won't you come inside?"

He shuffles into her rooms and toward the window as she pushes the door shut behind her, barring it to prevent interruption. Caught in his own thoughts as he gazes out onto the sunlit grounds, he jumps when she sets her hand gently upon his arm.

"What is it, my dear son?" Her eyes cannot hide her concern.

Turning to her, he releases a sigh and brings his gaze to hers.

"I am out of options," he tells her. "I need your help."

* * *

 _You told me you hadn't lost hope._

His eyes open and the first thing he notices is the rapid rhythm of his heart. He cannot manage to escape the utter ugliness of his words or the despondent falling of his wife's beautiful face as they left his mouth. They follow him into his dreams and through his waking hours, tormenting him with their falsity and prodding him to be fully honest with her.

 _If only she knew!_

But, as a means of protection, she cannot possibly be told. She must remain fully unaware. The world he has permitted to form around him as king has become dark and uncertain and cruel. She remains his only source of light and he knows he must keep her safe – even though that will require her sorrow and confusion. There is no other way.

The bright early morning rays of sunshine slant through the windowpanes and fall upon her face as she sleeps next to him and his heart begins to slow. It is the one place he knows she has found rest in the last weeks – the one place she does not wrestle with the expectations set before her as queen, as wife, as friend.

 _She has a childlike belief that a woman should trust her husband._

His mother's words slice through him, piercing him with regret over the many poor and naive decisions he has made since his father's fate was placed into his hands. He used to be a man his wife could trust – and he resolves that he must do all within his power to ensure that he proves himself to once again be trustworthy, even if she never knows.

Last evening, as a last desperate grasp at some other remedy, he had posed the idea of her returning to Scotland without him and she had refused outright to do so. She asserted they could face their foes together. She promised to fight at his side, to stand resolutely with him without care as to the cause of his unnamed fears.

But he cannot have her do that. It would be a fool's stance.

Her breath moves in and out of her mouth softly, and he finds himself transfixed by the quietness of the moment and the closeness of his body to hers. He works to set each piece of her into place in his memory. He wants to remember her like this – lovely and unguarded and at peace.

 _Whatever happens, I'll never leave you – Never betray you._

Those words he spoke to her will be true until the end of his days, however many they may number. He will fight for them to be true. If he cannot be the kind of king he wants to be, then he will at least be the man and husband that she deserves. At the least, he can grant her that.

 _Because a compromised king is not a king at all._

* * *

 **Author's Note(s)** : Yes, I'm still writing, but it is a very, very slow process (because after 5 years of trying to get pregnant and miscarriages, I'm pregnant again and this one should be joining us in October!). This story has been in the plotting stage for a long time and is coming about in 200-300 word bursts. Updates will _not_ be quick to come, but they _will_ indeed come. A special thank you to Robin and Heather for agreeing once more to be betas for what is a bit of a complicated tale (when they don't even know what's coming yet!) and to all those who continue to encourage me to write. No, I'm not watching the show any longer, but I feel an eternal need to rectify the carnage of so many beautiful possibilities.

 **Disclaimer(s)** : Reign and its characters are not mine and, to be honest, I don't really want them. They belong to Laurie McCarthy and CW/CBS. Direct quotes have been pulled from 201-207 in order to better set the stage for the plot divergence. The plot divergence itself is, however, the product of my own imagination and therefore belongs to me. Lyrics at top (and, consequently, the name of the fic itself) are from Typhoon's "Artificial Light".


	2. ONE (Mary)

When everything else has been packed, she retrieves one last item from the armoire against the wall. The white linen folds of the shirt pool softly between her fingers as she carries it to her only remaining trunk and places it just inside the lid.

His scent lingers on the fabric's fibers and it nearly undoes her – but instead she chooses to stave off emotion as she lets the lid drop and latch in the empty rooms.

She walks to the window, in amazement and disbelief at both how quickly the weeks have passed since her husband's death and at how each hour has dragged on cruelly in his absence. Stoic and silent, the chateau walls seem to press in on her, invading her mind and reflecting the closing of her heart. This spring morning, bright and cheery, has already seen the coronation of her young brother-in-law and of his mother as regent until he comes of age – but it no longer holds the bright promise of the world as she once knew it.

Not long ago, she had knelt in that same sacred space and received her own crown. She had been entrusted with the rule of France – with Francis beside her. King _and_ queen.

But it no longer matters. Francis is gone and their reign finished.

 _You cannot linger here, my dear. You have buried your husband. I have buried my son. As soon as Charles is crowned, you will not be safe near Court. You must prepare yourself to return to Scotland._

The recollection of her mother-in-law's words sounds in her head as she steps through the doorway of her rooms and signals that the rest of her belongings are ready to be loaded into the waiting wagons. The corridors echo the click of her heels against the stones, taking her away from this place that has held so many of the years and treasured seasons of her life.

Reaching the courtyard, Bash helps her into the carriage. Kenna slips in beside her. The curtains are already drawn as a gesture of respect for the newly widowed queen. She does not open them, even to have one last glimpse back at the chateau or to wave at the people gathered to see her departure.

The time has come to leave. Nothing remains for her here.

* * *

The journey to the Mont takes several days, the travellers slowed by extra members of the party. To offer discreet protection, Catherine disguised a dozen guards as holy men on pilgrimage. While she and Kenna find the road bumpy from their carriage seats, Mary suspects the men's diligent feet have a less tumultuous path.

They arrive at the Mont when the tides are low, allowing them to traverse the natural bridge into the guardianship that the sacred and fortified isle can provide them. Here, she will remain out of the way while Charles begins his reign with Catherine at his side. Here, she will finish her mourning before she returns to Scotland. Here, she will wrestle with what it means to be a queen without a king.

Here, she will lose count of the days and seek solace in the relics and in the silence.

Here, she will finally know his complete and total absence.

The carriage halts and Kenna parts the curtains, revealing the narrow cobbled streets and their tiny shops and homes. "Mary?" her only remaining lady speaks softly so as not to startle her. The queen has not spoken since Nostradamus took her husband's body from her side, its silent warmth finally beginning to seep into coldness.

Bash ducks his head inside and beckons the two women to exit, assisting each of them as they descend. Then, placing his hand at the small in his wife's back, he steers the two of them into a narrow alleyway that steadily climbs upward to the abbey.

She notices the small intimacy between her friends and her heart clenches against the pain that threatens to reveal itself before she can find herself alone. She has never known such jealousy in her heart, particularly toward those whom she loves – but she cannot feel otherwise.

Shifting her gaze from her friends, she sets her feet determinedly to the path before her, head held high and shoulders stiffly back.

Upward they walk through the walls of stone, winding their way to where Catherine hopes she might find rest. Rest from her duties, rest in her mourning, and the reality of the rest of her days.

 _You will be safe at the Mont, Mary. Take time to grieve properly before returning to Scotland. Trust your mother and brother to do what must be done. The depth of feeling between you and Francis was unusual – be the woman who has lost her beloved husband and not the queen who has lost her king. Do not fret over a single thing. I will take care of the arrangements._

At the top of the climb, the monks provide an austere welcome. One shows her to the quarters where she will stay for the next six months, the monk shuffling serenely through the abbey's corridors and around its enclosed courtyards. Sunlight streams into these small open spaces, filtered by leaves and the salty scent of the surrounding sea.

Catherine wanted her to take six months to grieve. Six months to regain some sense of life.

But as she closes the door to her quarters behind her, she acknowledges it would have been much simpler to return to Scotland immediately and soldier onward, putting her energy into affairs of state and forgetting that France ever lay behind her.

For she knows that as the days blur and proceed, the truth of her new life will settle upon her – that truth which she has feared since she was summoned to Francis' side as he returned from that fatal hunting trip with Bash.

 _She is now alone_.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Thanks so much to everyone for reading along and also to all who left some feedback on the prologue. I'm sure you've picked up on the reality (as warned) that this is a very slow-to-come story, but thank you for being willing to wait for the rest as it comes. As always, special props to Heather and Robin for taking an early look at this and letting me know when my sentences were awkward and when my brain forgot letters in words _–_ you two are beautiful!


	3. TWO (Mary)

The days and the rhythm of the Abbey mirror her dulled senses. Each day bleeds into the next, centered on its regular ritual of prayer and mass, silence and news of the world outside. One day, Kenna mentions the date to Mary in passing, and it is then – in the deepest parts of herself – that Mary knows.

Left alone in her room when her lady excuses herself for a walk in the village, she kneels, opening the latch of her trunk. She lifts out his shirt with its last persistent scent of him and moves it to the other side of the container. Her fingers brush against the leather cover of the journal buried underneath and draw it to her chest. Rising, she crosses the room.

She seats herself in a chair by the hearth and settles herself under a coverlet. Gently, she touches the ribbon at the book's middle and spreads open the volume. Her handwriting nearly unrecognizable in the last entry, she manages to make sense of the first scrawled words and weeps openly as emotion and memory mingle at the very surface of her being:

 _He is gone and I am undone._

The knowledge of his absence and the knowledge she now possesses seep in like two overfull rivers converging and flooding the lands around them – slowly rising through her foundations and threatening to drown her in the truth of these last months. She thumbs quickly through the weeks of sickness and fever, and then to the days before Francis returned to the chateau from his hunting trip, skimming each entry and its contents. Tears slip quietly down her cheeks as she revisits her hope that he might return and she might be able to share with him her suspicion that she was once again with child. She had hoped they might rejoice again together, that they might look with joy upon the future.

But that future is no more.

 _He is gone and I am undone_.

She ceases her perusal of the past months as the sudden tide of grief causes the blurring of her vision. Breathing in, her chest heaves and shudders as she attempts to calm herself to the extent she might continue. She bats at the moisture on her cheeks until it abates. She closes her eyes and her head falls in a gesture of concession against the back of the chair.

After a few minutes, she repositions herself over the bound sheets, examining their record for confirmation of her knowledge.

She returns to the final entry, written the day of her husband's death:

 _I understand my predicament. I am now a woman without a husband, a queen without a king. I expect that this child, too, shall join his brother or sister in the coming days. There will be no remnant of Francis in this world when that happens. I cannot grieve such a thing so close to his death. It is too much for my heart. I will choose, then, to ignore it and to give myself over to the days and to my memories. I cannot suffer this other loss alone; it is too much to imagine. Catherine has said I should consider returning to Scotland once Charles has been crowned, which seems reasonable. Perhaps I can put this life behind me and start anew – or, perhaps, I will never know what it means to know true happiness ever again._

Four months have passed and her courses have not returned. There has been no second loss.

And, at long last, she acknowledges that she is not alone.

* * *

Every morning, Kenna appears to sit with her queen. She reads aloud from books and from letters written to Mary by Catherine and Charles, Greer and Lola, her mother and James. In the afternoons, the two women play chess in silence and explore the passageways between Mary's room and the library.

Without exception, Mary attends mass twice a day. She lights candles and prays, her lips mouthing the words as she fingers each bead on her rosary. The sharp spice of incense immerses her in her worship and in the necessity to cling to something beyond herself.

Still, she does not speak.

Her waist begins to thicken and Kenna notices.

On an afternoon walk through the village, Kenna stops by the home of a woman well-known for her dressmaking and commissions her handiwork – she discreetly tells the seamstress of a woman recently widowed who has just discovered herself with child. They discuss options for dressing her appropriately for both roles in the months to come. The woman delivers the first gown to the Abbey a week later.

Kenna knocks at Mary's door and steps inside as it swings open. Mary's eyes drift over the wrapped parcel in Kenna's hands before offering a welcoming nod, moving aside and back into the room so her visitor might follow.

"I've brought you something," her friend says softly. Mary turns back toward Kenna as her friend unfolds the paper and lifts out the garment. Her eyes widen at the folds of fabric as they reveal their twofold purpose and she rushes forward to embrace her lady, burying her head in her friend's shoulder and tightly wrapping her arms around her small frame.

"Thank you," she whispers. Long unused, her voice sounds as if it belongs to a stranger.

* * *

Her screams ring out in the corridors as the monks move along to the chapel for evening mass. A harried midwife rushes past, spurred on by the echoing cries and intent on reaching the room to which she has been summoned.

The air hangs thick, unmoving, though Kenna has unfastened the windows to encourage Mary's laboring. The evening heat and its accompanying summer damp sit heavily in the small space. Sweat's sweet smell mixes with the acrid scent of blood and the smoke from the hearth to form a heady fog that refuses to dissipate.

She grips her hand to the bedpost next to where she crouches, weak and weary. A wave of pain breaks over her and she urges her body downward to push out its small inhabitant.

Looking up to see the midwife's entry, her bleary vision deceives her. She senses his presence, surely hallucinating when she sees him heavily shrouded and standing guard near the door. His eyes urge her to continue on, to bring this last piece of his life into the world.

The skilled woman examines her quickly, knowing that the time draws close.

"I know you are tired, Majesty. Just a few more strong pushes."

She nods her head, droplets of sweat dripping off of her brow. Mustering a deep breath, she lets it descend into her lungs and braces herself once more against the bed's frame. She bears down against the rising wave of pain, the haunting blue of his eyes overtaking her vision and the sound of her name on his lips causing every other sound to fall away.

A maidservant catches her as she falls backward and a choked cry splits the room. She looks to the doorway to catch one last glimpse of her imagination's fabrication, but it is empty once again. No one lingers there.

The midwife severs the cord that binds mother to child and places a silver coin in the tiny palm. Kenna and the maidservant walk Mary back to the bed, assisting her as she climbs and collapses into it. Exhaustion begins to take hold just as a warm bundle is placed into her arms.

She slowly opens her eyes, taking in the small face with its miniature nose and lips.

"She looks like her _maman_ ," says the midwife, smiling tenderly. "Let us see if she will suckle while we wait for your labor to be complete."

In spite of her fatigued state, Mary finds she cannot look away from her daughter. As the midwife assists her in placing the babe at her breast, she traces the soft, perfectly formed curve of skull and skin with her eyes. Hot teardrops spill down her cheeks, her heart both overfull and empty in the same moment. She longs to speak to one person and him only, so she speaks in silence:

 _She is beautiful, Francis – and she is ours._

* * *

 **Author's Note(s):** Oh my word! How has it been so long since I last posted a chapter?! This has been such a change of pace for me (I normally just dump words at a rate that is ridiculous) and I'm still kind of flabbergasted by my slowness, but THANK YOU for bearing with the long time breaks between chapters. I'm really, truly hoping to finish this up by the time this kiddo shows up (I'm due in 7 weeks - how did that happen?!). Regardless, I know this has been a really emotional story thus far and I PROMISE it's about to shift. As always, special thanks to my lovely beta duo Heather and Robin, who take the first beating of reading a chapter and tell me just how much work it needs ...


	4. THREE (Kenna)

She's not terribly sentimental – at least, she hasn't been until recently.

That tiny baby girl with her wide blue eyes and small fingers that clamp tight and refuse to let go – that little girl has changed everything. In her presence, Kenna notices her heart tugging when she catches a glimpse at Bash and she feels everything pinch when she spies her friend looking on in that odd combination of grief and wonder that can only be known to a woman who has experienced great pain at the same time she has been given something long desired.

Sentiment, Kenna decides, is hardly convenient.

The morning before their departure, she insists on helping Mary pack her things for the return to Scotland, and she feels once more the deep clench of empathy. Her friend's entire life and every memento of Francis lies buried in trunks. The dresses she had commissioned, while Mary mourned and embraced her pregnancy, enter the trunks first and speedily. Kenna hopes they will never be needed again. She sees that the newness of motherhood has managed to dull Mary's ever-present ache over Francis's absence – but she still worries that the queen will never heal fully, that her grief will make her weak and threaten their places in Scotland.

Little Anne Marie sleeps soundly in the cradle near the hearth, wheezing softly through her tiny nose and swaddled tightly against the room's drafts. Kenna and Mary work to stow dresses and Kenna takes charge of selecting Mary's limited wardrobe for their impending journey. They chatter about the people they have come to know at Mont Saint Michel, the shopkeepers and guardsmen and those who serve at the Abbey. They speak of Scotland and France, of the letters received and sent with news of the two kingdoms.

It is the same routine they have had since the first day they awoke in the Mont's shelter. Kenna's thoughts drift to being free of this small village and its drab austerity. She does not know how they will be received back in Edinburgh, but she does hope the homecoming will include a festive party or two. Perhaps her mother's dressmaker might be able to fashion her something new upon her arrival. She sets aside a gown for Mary's arrival in Edinburgh, considering the virtues of the various fabrics and laces stowed in her own trunks.

"Would you and Bash dine with me tonight?" Mary inquires, suddenly pausing to look at her friend as she places a pair of heeled shoes in the bottom of a trunk.

Kenna nods her head as she pulls another dress from the armoire. "Of course, Mary." The response feels a bit formal, but Kenna has grown accustomed to responding to Mary's requests with respect for the queen she is. She would do anything to preserve their friendship, anything to ensure her position at Mary's side. She adds, "I will let Bash know when I get back to our quarters this afternoon."

"Thank you," Mary says quietly as she finishes folding a nightgown. "I have something to discuss with you."

A little puzzled by the statement, Kenna's mind turns to the worst of possibilities. _Has something happened in Scotland? Has the Scottish Court been dissolved? Where will they go if she no longer has a throne?_

Anne stirs with a small cry and Kenna casts aside her grim thoughts, putting down the garment she holds in order to retrieve the infant from the cradle. She jiggles her and sings softly a French song she has heard Mary sing to the girl – one of Francis's favorites. She feels Mary's eyes linger on her and the child.

After a few minutes, Anne quiets and begins to succumb once more to drowsiness. Kenna again ponders what Mary could want to discuss with her and Bash. The three do not leave much unspoken, so she knows it must carry a substantial weight.

Sighing, she sets Anne back down and reaches for the next dress. The evening meal will arrive soon enough and no amount of curiosity can speed its arrival. In the meantime, the trunks must be packed. They leave in the morning.

* * *

The trio settles in at the small table in Mary's quarters. Usually, they sup in the hall with the monks and the others from their party – but tonight, Mary has requested to eat in her rooms and a servant has been dispatched to fulfill that request.

Once the food has been plated, Kenna watches as Mary dismisses the serving girl and begins to pick at her food. Despite the day's labors, her appetite fails her and her stomach churns in anticipation of discovering what Mary wants to discuss. An afternoon of continued contemplation on the matter has yielded no result and she feels her skin crawl in her curiosity.

Bash reaches over for her hand and gently squeezes her fingers with his own. She does not know how he can remain so calm when he is about to leave his home country – presumably forever – but his touch releases the tension she has carried through the day.

They eat in silence until Mary ladles the last spoonful of broth to her lips. Kenna watches Bash sit back in his chair, carefully consider his sister-in-law's countenance, and prepare to speak. She knows he will do whatever necessary to ensure Mary's safety and well-being. Grateful, she sets down her own spoon and relaxes.

She never thought she would find such delight and comfort in a husband, but she does. It's odd, really, how she thought she loved Henry and the excitement of being his mistress. The act of returning to one man night after night, a man determined to please her – that act has come to hold more exhilaration and intrigue than her tryst with the French king. Bash somehow keeps her guessing. Their marriage may have begun as a farce, but it has become her one place of refuge from the pressing requirements and strivings of their life at Court.

In the wake of Francis's death, his stalwart character has been all the more apparent in his ready willingness to serve Mary and return with the two of them to Scotland. Kenna doesn't even recall him taking a moment for himself in his own grief over losing his younger brother – instead, he has poured everything he has into the protection of his family.

She knows herself to be terribly shallow, and he reminds her of what it is to be human, of the need to be sentimental – however inconvenient it may be. She truly looks forward to the prospect of arriving in Scotland and having the chance for the two of them to begin again away from the French Court and the mistakes she made there. Perhaps she can even be different.

"Kenna mentioned you wanted to discuss something with us, Mary," Bash says with no trace of expectation or emotion. "May I ask what it might be?"

Mary shifts nervously in her chair and Kenna spies a sadness as it swiftly occupies her friend's eyes. Kenna reaches for her hand.

"Mary, what is it?" She asks gently. "You can tell us anything. You know that."

Mary nods and inhales deeply, resolving herself to whatever it is that must be said.

"I need you to do something for me," she hesitates. "Something that you will not want to do, but something you must be willing to do." Pausing, she adds, "For me and for Francis."

Kenna seeks her husband's eyes, who reassures her with a nod that they will find a way to support Mary, no matter the request. Her fingers fidget in her lap. _What in the world could it be?_ He turns his attention back to Mary.

"What is it, Mary?"

The queen's eyes flit to the cradle near the hearth, her daughter slumbering sweetly in the warmth from the fire.

"I need you to claim Anne as your own."

Kenna starts at the request, her mind swimming with questions too innumerable to ask, and silence descends once more upon the room. All that can be heard are Anne's soft sleepy breaths and the occasional crack of the fire.

"If I claim her," Mary begins, exhaling swiftly – her anticipation of this discussion seeming to give way to relief as she unburdens her heart. "She will face danger every day of her life. I do not want her to live the life her father and I lived. As Charles has already been crowned, she will never be queen. Due to the unfortunate timing of Francis's death, her paternity will be questioned by the nobility if she returns to France. Conde continues to amass support for a Bourbon rule, which only lends additional danger. I will not have her live a life of fear."

Mary's voice and expression harden with her resolve concerning the matter. The surprise of what she asks can be seen on Bash's face, though the astonishment gradually fades as she continues. Kenna still feels the weight of having too many questions and no answers, of the unknown of raising _any_ child, and she wonders how much doing this will affect her social life. She remembers how Lola changed after Jean-Philippe's birth, how she seldom attended parties without leaving them early. Kenna almost feels ashamed for this thought. _Almost_ – but not quite.

"In Scotland," Mary continues. "She has every right to be queen as I have been but, as mine has been, her life will be threatened by all who have sought to kill me since I was a child. Francis and I desperately longed for the ability to lead simple, common lives away from the perils of Court. That option, however, was never to be ours."

Mary pauses, taking a moment to swallow the sadness that constricts her throat as she thinks on Francis. Kenna knows Mary wants to keep this last piece of him safe, even at great personal cost. To do this – to have Bash and Kenna raise Anne as their own – will mean the girl will never truly know her mother.

"I cannot walk away from the responsibility of my rule, but I can save Anne from it. She would be safer with you. She might truly be able to live, to choose some part of her own life. And – as I hope to convince you to join me at Edinburgh as my deputy, Bash – I could still know her, still watch her as she grows."

The queen's eyes plead for this last possibility to be accepted and Kenna's chest tightens at the sorrow she hears in Mary's voice. Mary quiets. She has spoken what she had intended and now she waits. The heavy silence mixes with the woodsmoke from the fire and the close space of the room.

Bewildered, Kenna looks to her husband. A thousand protests rise to her lips. She doesn't know how to care for a child. She doesn't want to share her husband just yet. She doesn't even know if she wants to be a mother. Babies are messy. She likes sleeping and dancing late into the night. She also cannot imagine that Anne's identity can long be kept a secret – their entire traveling party knows her parentage.

And, yet, she doesn't know if she can refuse. She knows Bash will see the reluctance in her eyes, but she looks to him anyway. A firm decision lurks in his eyes and he remains unfazed by the tension of the evening, of Mary's request. She wonders what Francis would think of them raising his and Mary's only child. She nods her head, acknowledging the choice she knows he has already made. They will take Anne. He turns back to Mary, who waits patiently for a response.

"All right," he replies. "I will be your deputy, and we will claim Anne."

Mary visibly relaxes at his words. In this moment, she is not a queen giving orders – she is merely a woman hoping to grant her daughter a better life than she has lived. For the time being, she has succeeded in her task.

The quiet changes, settling into an easy camaraderie. They pull their chairs away from the table and close to the hearth, and Kenna watches Mary's face as she watches Anne. She notices how strong the resemblance is between mother and daughter. _How will she and Bash ever pass Anne off as their own?_ The questions hound her, but she observes that Mary's whole being seems suddenly lighter, somehow at peace. That, she realizes, will have to be enough for now.

As the evening ambles along, they talk for the first time of what lies behind them – memories bright and beautiful, regretful and lamented – and of the lives that await them when they are done with their travels.

There is once again life and light in Mary's eyes.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** OH MY WORD. I am so sorry this has taken so long. Obviously, life has changed pretty drastically for me over the last few months because we added a little boy to our family in November - but I had hoped to finish this before he arrived and now it has been more than four months since I updated!

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'm already at work on the next one and am eager to turn it over to my betas in the next week or two so I can get it posted. Many thanks to Robin and Heather for maintaining interest after so long and giving me good feedback and pointing out my inconsistencies.


	5. FOUR

A week after they arrive in Edinburgh, he meets Bash on the wall after the night watch begins. The shadows fall long from the torches, blending seamlessly into the night. He stands waiting in the space between two towers and their watchmen, far enough away from both to ensure they won't be overheard.

The night is cool, crisp, and dark. Light clouds dot the sky, floating blue-white above the sea to the east. No wind or breeze stirs. The warmth stifles a bit inside his heavy cloak, and he pushes back his hood as he sees Bash approach.

The two men embrace. In the low light, he nearly misses the unfamiliar exhaustion in Bash's eyes, but he notices its presence as Bash begins to speak.

"How is the armory? Are your quarters sufficient?"

The words rush forth in a stream of urgent concern and emotion.

And although he, too, could use some rest, he assures Bash that he has been treated well. The food fills and his bed is warm. They speak of his work, how he has been fashioning new shoes for the horses and learning to repair armor. He shows Bash the callouses forming on the pads of his fingers and the pink-blistered burn on his forearm where he accidentally leaned against an iron fresh from the fire. It is easier to speak of such things.

Instead, he asks, "How is Kenna? Has she changed all the furnishings in your rooms yet?" A smirk twists his lips and a teasing glint develops in his eyes. Yes, indeed – _much_ easier to inquire about Kenna. He leans against the wall to take in the breadth of Edinburgh, dotted with the firelit windows of tenants awake into the late hours.

Bash laughs, chuckling into the night as he steps closer to the wall and joins him in looking over the city.

"She has changed it all, somehow, in only a few days – the servants have been at her beck and call, moving furniture, replacing the draperies, cleaning the hearths. She wants everything to be perfect, especially now that Anne … "

Bash clears his throat and his words trail off sheepishly.

"Now that Anne what, Bash?" he asks. His face betrays the shock of hearing the name spoken aloud and countless more questions sit unspoken on his tongue.

"I'm sorry, Francis," Bash continues, turning to him. "It was Mary's idea."

* * *

A fortnight after their arrival, Bash sneaks him in to see Anne – Kenna having left to spend the afternoon with Mary. He hides around the corner, waiting for the nurse to depart before he approaches the door and knocks. Though his presence will go unnoticed by the little girl, he finds himself short of breath – nervous at the opportunity to see her, to hold her.

Bash opens the door and ushers him inside. Anne has just fallen asleep and they will have a few hours before the nurse returns. They must be careful that Francis is not seen in this part of the castle. No good would come of arousing Kenna or Mary's suspicions if it were reported back that a man from the armory was spending time in the deputy's rooms.

He follows Bash into the adjoining chamber, which has been fashioned into a nursery. The afternoon sunlight spills in from a high window in the wall. Anne is tucked into the cradle, nestled under a blanket. The sight of her steals his lungs of their air. He feels the sob rise in his chest before he hears it quietly escape his lips.

 _She looks just like Mary_.

His last memory of her was her cry piercing through the night of her birth. He had lingered near the door of Mary's rooms, attired as a guardsman, until he heard her newborn wail. Once, he had caught Mary staring at him, her eyes wide with delirium. In that moment, he knew he shouldn't have been there – and, yet, he knew he couldn't have been anywhere else. Assured by the cries, he hastened away in the knowledge that the child lived.

And to see her now – well, it nearly undoes him.

 _Anne. Our Anne. Oh, my dear Mary! How could you have given her up?_

He understands what Bash has told him, that Mary wanted Anne to be safe and to live a life of her own choosing – but the thought of her being separated from their only child, from the only remaining piece of him, is nearly too much for him. They both had so eagerly anticipated the addition of children to their family.

Francis will always hold a place in his heart for tiny Jean-Philippe, who had been a wonderful and complicated surprise – but this little girl is altogether different. She was borne of the same love he sought to protect by taking Nostradamus's heart-slowing potion. While she could never be queen in France, in her blood flows every right to the Scottish throne.

And, yet, she will never know.

He crouches at the side of the cradle, offering up his finger to the grip of her chubby pink fist. The small, raven-haired beauty gurgles out a laugh while she sleeps, her mouth and eyes crinkling in some unknown joy.

Time flees quickly as he watches her, the shadows lengthening on the wall. _How long has he been here – an hour? Longer?_ Rising, he notices the wetness on his cheeks and the quiet of the room. He turns his head, finds the room empty, and realizes Bash has left him alone.

Slipping one hand behind the child's head and another under her back, he gently lifts her from the cradle. She stirs just a little before settling herself against him. He hears the pounding of his heart ring out in his ears and it seems so loud he fears it will wake her.

But it doesn't. He lingers, reluctant to relinquish his daughter from his arms.

Her breaths puff warm and even against his chest. He waits a few moments longer and places her small body back in the cradle before returning to the main room, where Bash awaits him.

"Thank you," he croaks. His voice is little more than a hoarse whisper.

Bash nods, knowingly, and sees Francis to the door. Kenna will be home soon.

* * *

The visits become a regular part of life. Whenever Kenna will be out for a few hours and Bash does not need to be elsewhere in the castle or in the city seeing to his duties, his brother sends for him and he waits around the corner until the nurse leaves.

One afternoon, Anne wakes as he enters the nursery, and he halts his steps in the hope that she will not startle and wail. She remains silent, however, watching him wide-eyed from the cradle. Slowly, quietly, he pads closer, pausing after every step to gauge her reaction.

He reaches the cradle. Twenty-nine steps. She gazes up at him, clear blue eyes locking to blue. It is as if they have always known each other. As he has done before, he gently lifts her and draws her close. Her fingers stretch out to test the texture of his beard, grabbing hold as a sly grin appears.

They walk circles around the room that day. He tells her of her _maman_ , of the moment he realized he was in love with her, of her grandparents and aunts and uncles. He paints for her with his words a portrait of their ancestral home, the lake shining in the midst of its grounds, its bright gardens and green woods.

As he talks, she locks into the cadence and timbre of his voice. Occasionally, when he playfully asks her a question, she offers up a coy smile in response. He loses all sense of time in the presence of that soft quirk of her lips. His heart beats so fully that it must surely burst.

She has just begun to drift toward slumber when he hears the door open in the next room. A scrabbling sounds from Bash rising to his feet and he makes out Kenna's eager voice battling with his brother's.

"I want to see Anne, Bash!" she insists. "I have been away from her all afternoon."

"I just want to hear about your day," Bash stalls. "How did you and Mary spend your time?"

But, as Francis looks around, he realizes it matters not. There is no place to hide in Anne's room. His heart races with understanding. Shrewd as she is, he doesn't expect his changed appearance will hide his identity from Kenna. The time has come for her to know.

The now-sleeping girl secure in his arms, he takes a seat in a chair near the hearth and waits. It is not long before the door swings open.

"I really don't understand you, Sebastian." Kenna's exasperated voice enters the room, her face toward Bash. She turns to the room and continues, "Why is it you … " The words die a silent death on her lips when she spies him sitting by the fire, rocking a lightly snoring Anne.

"Hello, Kenna," he says as evenly as he can muster. Stunned, she greets him with silence.

* * *

"You bastard!" He winces, hearing her scream at Bash in the next room. Something hits the wall and shatters before its pieces fall to the ground. "You've been lying to me this whole time!"

Somehow, Anne sleeps through the noise, so he makes no move to get up and leave – even though he knows he should. Kenna has always been volatile in her reactions. He makes out Bash's voice, soft and firm in his attempts to plead with her to be quiet and compose herself. To be quite honest, however, he cannot hold her response against her. If someone he believed to be dead had materialized in his rooms, holding his adopted daughter, he also would have a difficult time remaining calm.

The argument's volume lessens considerably, then diminishes into an eerie silence. He hears footsteps approach the door in anticipation of its hinges creaking open. Kenna stands in the doorway, stance wide and hands resting upon her hips. He rises to his feet, finding it difficult to read her expression, which vacillates between anger and relief, until tears begin to course her cheeks and she rushes toward him. She hesitates only a moment before crushing both him and Anne tightly against herself.

"Francis!" she mumbles, pulling herself back quickly and shaking her head in apparent disbelief. "You bastard!" She laughs, forcibly whacking the back of her hand into his upper arm before averting her eyes. She sighs and looks at him again. "Will you stay for dinner?"

He smiles, relaxing, and rubs the sting from his arm. "I would love to."

Anne stretches lazily as he returns her to the cradle.

* * *

Though he has yet to cross paths with Mary, Kenna insists on having a changing screen installed in Anne's room. It will be a place for him to hide, she says, in the occasion that he might need such a place. She would rather they told Mary everything, and she pleads with both him and Bash repeatedly that they would – but they tell her they believe it is better for Mary to remain unaware and, so, she works to protect their secret.

His afternoons in their chambers become more frequent, as do evenings at their table. Anne's eyes begin to recognize his voice when she hears him at the door. Upon learning to crawl, she often makes her way to his feet, sits back, and reaches up her eager little arms, requesting that he lift her from the stone floor and bounce her on his knee.

The season passes into winter and then spring, proceeding into summer and autumn before turning back again to the cold and wet at year's end. He manages to move about the castle grounds unnoticed, busy at his work in the armory and treasuring his time spent with Bash and Kenna and Anne. His heart does not find rest, however. It searches for her in every crowd, looks for her down every corridor. Somehow, he has not seen her since the day they arrived in Edinburgh. As he had hoped, she has been safer here in Scotland.

He should be grateful and, yet, he longs for her.

On a dreary afternoon in February, he sits playing games with Anne in the nursery. She jabbers cheerfully through her unruly mop of dark curls, nearly chirping as she sets a small block atop the tower she has been building.

"Ook!" she points. "Ook, onc!"

He laughs, taking particular joy in the way she drops the _l_ in "look" and in her truncation of _oncle_ , the title Bash and Kenna have given him. They never speak his given name, lest Anne address him as she becomes older and draw attention. This nickname is his alone – and he relishes each time it slips from the little girl's lips.

A rap sounds on the main door and he hears Kenna move to open it.

"Why hello there, Mary!" she exclaims loudly, cheerfully. "What brings you to our rooms today?"

Kenna ushers Mary into the sitting area, granting him the time to slip away from Anne. He holds his finger to his lips and whispers a quick _shh_ , hoping she will think it a game and remain quiet. The little girl's giggles follow him as he ducks behind the screen in the corner.

It is not long before the door opens and the click of heeled shoes strikes the floor.

" _Tante_!" Anne calls out as she rushes to greet Mary. He imagines the tiny arms wrapped around Mary's skirts and tears collect in his eyes.

"Anne-girl!" Mary's voice returns brightly. Through a tiny hole in the screen, he watches her drop to her knees and gather the girl tightly into her embrace. Anne wriggles her way out of Mary's grasp and grabs Mary's hand, pulling her to her feet and toward the tower of blocks.

"Ook, _tante_!"

Mary walks to the tower and once more drops to her knees. While Anne busies herself with the blocks and the construction of a second tower, he looks on as Mary studies the little girl.

"You are very much like your _papa_ , Anne-girl." Her words are soft, but he hears them. Turning toward the corner where he hides, she wipes away an errant teardrop with her finger. He spies his signet ring, resting atop the pointer finger of her right hand. Her eyes hold depths of grief and pain that he has never before seen – depths etched when he laid unmoving, heart barely beating, and she said farewell to all they had shared and built together.

Unable to look upon her face any longer, he turns to the wall and shamefully acknowledges all that his actions have wrought. _Yes, she is safe – but at what cost?_

He grieves. Duty has taken its toll on his beautiful bride. _Will she ever be happy again?_

Mary and Anne play as the daylight fades, Anne babbling strings of nonsense as she builds and then demolishes her towers. He hears Bash return from the day's work and Kenna comes to the doorway, summoning them all for supper. The four of them depart for the great hall and the chamber settles into stillness in their absence.

He makes his way out from behind the screen, slumping defeatedly into a chair.

And he weeps.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Things are maybe becoming a little more interesting, aren't they? This has been a slow-build kind of fic, which is a little different for me (or at least I feel it's different – maybe it's just the pace at which I've been writing!). And, instead of writing an epilogue after this chapter (as originally planned), I somehow decided I wanted to add several chapters ... So, more is definitely on the way!

"Anne-girl" is intended as a reference to _Anne of Green Gables_ (in the movie versions, Megan Follows played Anne). I thought it fit, so I threw it in there. Again, special thanks to Robin and Heather for beta-ing and asking good questions and granting me the joy of seeing your reactions in real-time. You two are lovely.


	6. FIVE (Bash)

**February 10, 1565**

He spies the shallows and he guides his horse to the water. Hooves splash in and out as he leads them across the Tweed. The pasturelands north of Lessuden lie ahead, grasses waving about with the afternoon's fading light. He has come to distrust the clear skies overhead, knowing the small dark clouds in the distance will likely cause trouble before the day ends.

The chill settles in as he eases his horse out onto the southern banks, the spattering hooves of Francis's horse sounding behind. With the short winter day waning, they spur the mounts onward toward the village in hope of finding their lodging before the snow starts to fall. Francis rides close at his heels, entirely unfamiliar with the terrain as his work in the armory has kept him from travelling much beyond the fortress walls.

Bash hopes the fresh air on this short journey will help to revive his brother's spirits, even just a little. While useful that Francis can identify the person they are to meet at journey's end, he prays that the Lord Darnley will see a blacksmith beneath Francis's thick beard and the heavy monk's garb he persists in wearing – a blacksmith, and not a king whose coronation he witnessed only a few years ago.

He sighs, shaking his head against the cold and reflecting on how much has changed in the months since Kenna first found Francis in their quarters. In a way, he has seen a rebirth of his younger brother. For the first time in his young life, Francis has found himself truly free. Free to work with his hands. Free from Henry and the expectations of one ascending to a throne.

Free to be a man who loves those who belong to him – free, and yet bound, by the fact that his wife does not know he still walks amongst the living.

Since Mary's unexpected arrival to see Anne a few days ago, Bash has watched Francis withdraw even further into his work and hide in his rooms. He knows the encounter shattered Francis's wistful illusion that the two might ever live happily without one another, and he feels the emotion tighten behind his eyes as the sun begins to drop beneath the horizon.

Yet, he thinks, _there is Anne_ – whose rosy little life and spellbinding quality create a beautiful brightness in the midst of so much dark sadness. Given enough time, she alone might be able to grant Francis a happiness that could mend the wounds caused by the decision to fake his own death.

To Francis, Anne is a pure, painful sweetness who continues to look more and more like Mary. He loves his daughter fiercely and with abandon, treasuring each moment he has at her side. Little Anne, in return, loves him wildly. In the evenings when he visits, she reserves a special place for him to sit right next to her. Bash finds it difficult to watch them together for too long, feeling as though he has somehow cast his eyes upon something sacred.

He takes satisfaction in knowing that his brother is alive and that Narcisse no longer holds any power over him, but Bash worries for his brother and the weight he continues to carry. Francis cannot live the rest of his days anxiously anticipating the next echoing click of heels in the castle corridors.

Kenna's passionate pleading continues, that Mary be told Francis lives. Francis, however, remains stalwart in his reluctance to do so, ever-mindful of preserving her safety. Bash has been conflicted these several months, unsure as to what would be the best or most safe course for the young queen. He often envisions a world where the two reunite, never to be parted again – and wishes he knew the precise moment to persuade Francis to disclose the truth that it might be so.

Perhaps if his brother had stood before the queen in her chambers this morning, as he had, Francis would have whole-heartedly decided she must be told. Her gaze trained on the overcast skies outside the window when he had entered, she immediately turned to speak to him and the other council members who had entered alongside him.

He watched her push aside her grief and pain when the privy council suggested she consider the choosing of a new king consort. She doled out orders efficiently and without emotion, but he saw the hunger and loneliness lurking in her eyes. His heart grieved at the sight and he determined to find something that might make her smile. As the others left the chamber, he took the folded missive from her hands and set about making plans to retrieve her cousin from the borderlands.

And, now, he and Francis direct their horses into the village as hearthlights dance merrily through the window lattices and into the main street. Peat smoke sits heavy in the cold air, churning forth from the homes' chimneys. After the last house, they turn and continue on their way westward – arriving just a short while later at a small croft with its house and barn.

The letter posted to Mary indicated that her cousin had stopped here at the vacant home of an old family friend, his horse having gone lame shortly before coming upon the village. His fear of retribution toward his father from the local villagers had kept him from seeking help from anyone nearby, and he chose instead to coerce a passerby to take a letter to Holyrood and pray fervently that it made its way to Mary's hands.

"Is this it?" Francis asks, tugging on the reins to halt his horse. The house sits dark and no smoke curls upward into the night sky.

"It must be," Bash responds, dismounting and tying the reins to a post in the yard. "The letter said he wanted to keep his presence from being known to anyone in the village, which might explain the absence of a fire."

"It is a terribly cold night to go without a fire," cautions Francis as he steps down from his mount. Bash wants to dismiss his brother's skepticism, but he shivers against the night's frosty air.

He places his hand on the hilt of his sword as he walks toward the house. Francis follows, his own blade hidden beneath his cloak.

Banging a fist against the door, Bash calls out, "Hello? Anyone at home?"

He pauses, waiting for the door to be thrown open in response. He knocks again.

"Henry Stuart? The queen has sent us to escort you to Holyrood, sir."

But, again, no one arrives at the door. A look passes between the two men, and Francis retrieves a small lantern and flint from his saddlebag. He stoops to pick up a few dry twigs on his way back to Bash's side. Two quick strikes of the flint generate enough spark to light one of the twigs and hold it to the lantern's wick. Francis lifts the lantern high as Bash puts his hand to the door. Unlatched, it swings open and the two enter into the home's darkness.

"Hello?" Bash calls out, once again seeking for some evidence of an inhabitant. "Henry?"

It is then that they spy the trail of chaos – a broken chair to one side, a shattered vase to the other. They carefully step forward to the end of the hall, each drawing his sword as they begin to follow the dark droplets staining the floorboards outside of the kitchen.

Turning into a small bedroom, they make out a dark shape draped across the bed and anxiously approach. No limb moves to greet them and no rasp of breath exhales from what they can now see to be a man's body. Francis brings the lantern in close and a gasp of recognition slips quietly into the room.

"That," he sighs wearily. "That is Henry Stuart."

Bash stoops to check for a pulse, knowing that he won't find one. The jagged wound in the man's side and its sticky trail of blood testify to that.

* * *

 **February 11, 1565**

Bash returns from the village the next morning to find Francis emptying a washtub.

He ventures inside the house and espies a set of newly scrubbed bed linens resting upon the winterdyke, drying slowly before the kitchen hearth. The floorboards have been scoured with sand, the puddles evaporating one by one. After the two men heave the mattress tick outside and stuff it with fresh straw from the barn, there will remain no trace of Henry Stuart's death.

Yawning, he seats himself by the hearth and runs a hand through his hair. Not wanting to share a house with a dead man, he and Francis chose instead to stay in the barn the night before – and neither had slept well. Thankfully, the village sexton agreed to dig a grave for the young man and to mark it with a simple stone, saving him and Francis the arduous task of wrestling the cold earth from the ground with their tired bodies.

He scans the room, taking note of the various wooden and metal implements on the kitchen wall, and contemplating the possibility of the home's owners never hearing what transpired there. Perhaps by the time they return, the incident might be long forgotten.

Francis enters and replaces the washtub on its peg between a pair of shears and a wooden ladle. He takes a seat in a wooden chair across from the hearth.

"Did you hear anything in the village?" he asks. "Does anyone know what happened?"

"Yes." Bash replies, shaking his head. "Yes, I did. And they do – but somehow they don't know who he was."

Francis's eyes grow wide in disbelief as Bash begins to explain what he gleaned from the village gossip. While Henry Stuart had been so afraid someone would discover his identity and connect him to his father's acts of treason, he had apparently not been so afraid as to prevent him from seeking out a dram and a game of _put_ at the village inn once he had become sufficiently bored with his simple, solitary existence.

The young man had apparently coupled this brazen outing with the seeding of extra playing cards into his tricks – and had been found out by his opposing players. Talk about the village revealed that his rivals had trailed Henry back to the house, stripped him of his coin purse and his horse, stabbed him as he protested, and proudly left him for dead.

"Well, then, what do we do now?" Francis asks, looking around. "What will we tell Mary?"

Bash has been pondering this very thing since they came upon Henry's body the night before. As his brother speaks aloud his sister-in-law's name, however, his head snaps up. He feels the fatigue and fog of the morning dissipate as the faint flicker of an idea strengthens.

"We will simply tell her what happened," he responds as he straightens his back and prepares to stand. "But, first, we must see to the stuffing of that tick and deliver his body to the sexton for a proper burial."

Francis rises to retrieve the tick from the bedroom and Bash gets up to join him. As they leave the kitchen, Bash takes a few items from their pegs on the wall and weighs them in his hand. Francis notices his pause and halts in the hallway, awaiting explanation.

"Bash?"

* * *

 **February 17, 1565**

He has never been so nervous and yet so determined to hide it as in this very moment, standing before Mary to tell her news of her cousin. While he was away, she decided to retreat to Wemyss Castle. He gathers from Kenna that Mary has grown tired of Holyrood's continuous celebration of guests, that she has embraced the opportunity for a short respite in the remote fortress and its cliffs below. Even in the days since he has last seen her, something has shifted – she appears to be removed even further from her reality than previously, resolved to finally force an unnatural distance with her heartache.

Bowing quickly at her greeting, he reports on the retrieval of her cousin. She nods distractedly, disconnected from all that he shares with her. The page arrives in the doorway, dropping his head in reverence before announcing the next visitor.

Bash steps to the side, fussing with his sword.

"Your Grace," the page begins. A horn trumpets a short fanfare.

"May I present your cousin, Henry Stuart – the Lord Darnley."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Surprise! I'm still at it, slow as it may be. Because this second half of the story wasn't exactly planned from the beginning (I only meant to summarize it in an epilogue), a lot of research has been necessary to plot through all of the details and (hopefully) make it plausible. Again, a special thanks to my beta team (Robin and Heather) for reading and giving me thoughts and prompting me to re-write/re-arrange entire sections so that everything is clear. Clearer = better!


	7. SIX (Mary)

_I'm learning that words are only words without a voice  
And I'm turning my way through sleepless nights dreaming of yours  
I'm finding that silence only speaks through fingertips  
And I'm tracing the path that once would lead me to your lips_

 _Let me lay you down, your body pressed to me  
Let the way you move be all the talk between  
Something 'bout the way you linger on my skin -  
Let me lay you down before you're only words again_

 **February 17, 1565**

She feels him curled against her back, the weight of his arm resting gently at her middle. His breath puffs warm at the nape of her neck, slow and rhythmless, letting her know that he slumbers on as the night turns toward dawn. Shifting to catch a glimpse of his face, she reaches for him – and her hands meet with empty air and cold, unoccupied bedding.

She dares not open her eyes.

If she doesn't open her eyes, she can preserve the heat of his skin and the curve of his lips resting upon her shoulder. At least for a moment, his spectre can linger with her.

And then – like all the mornings that have come before – it departs suddenly and cruelly.

The early hours stretch still and dark around her from where she rests beneath blankets meant to ward off the damp chill of the Scottish winter. The hearth burns bright with fresh peat and the earthy scent spreads through the room. She bats a hand at her cheeks, sweeping away the disintegrating fragments of the dream with her tears. Disoriented in her waking, her heart pounds wildly and her body trembles with fatigue. It takes a moment to recognize the unfamiliar room in which she has awakened.

Wemyss.

In these moments before the sun attempts to peek its way through the winter clouds and her maidservant arrives to help her dress for the day, she lets herself think of him.

And then the rap sounds at the door and duty arrives with her lady's maid. The grieving widow can no longer exist – nothing can remain except a queen.

She breathes in, then out, as the young girl approaches with a dressing gown. Her heartbeat slows to its normal cadence and her limbs steady as she climbs from the bed.

Another day has arrived.

* * *

She passes the morning in the solar adjacent to her bedchamber, receiving the occasional member of the local nobility and slowly embroidering tiny stitches upon a linen panel. A pile of correspondence rests on a nearby table, but she decides it can wait until the afternoon arrives.

The page enters and announces Sebastian's arrival.

She sets aside her needlework, lifts her head and attempts to recall the errand on which she had sent Bash just days before. Her cousin, she remembers, had required assistance in returning to Edinburgh after spending the entirety of his life hidden away in England. Sighing at the memory, she can hear the echoes of her mother's voice when she last visited France, recounting that "nasty" business with the House of Lennox.

Her mother would have opposed her decision to bring Henry back to Scotland, but she finds she cares less about what her mother might think as the years since her death move into the past. After what happened in France with the Lord Narcisse and his incessant desire to expunge Protestantism, she can no longer let herself sit idly by – she must do what is right.

Shaking her head, she tries to focus on Bash's report from the borderlands, but she fails to hear most of his words. As he relays how he located the Lord Darnley, a memory of the last time she and Francis saw Henry in France – where everyone remarked at their similar appearance as they stood next to one another – suddenly stirs in her mind. She quells the memory stiffly, forcing herself to think instead of James and his certain displeasure over Henry's return to Court, and allowing her gaze to rest upon the doorway behind Bash's head.

He finishes his report and steps aside, but she still does not look at him. She nods her head in his direction, smiling slightly and knowing he will voice his worry over her detached behavior when she shares a table with him, Kenna and Anne this evening.

But she doesn't care. The fleeting thought of Francis belongs in her chambers before the day begins – not here. This is Scotland. She is queen.

France lies behind her.

A trumpet blares just outside the door, heralding an arrival, and the page returns to the doorway to announce the newest visiting party.

"Your Grace," he addresses her with a reverent bow of his head. "May I present your cousin, Henry Stuart – the Lord Darnley."

She stands as the page exits. The visitor enters the room and drops to one knee, his head bent low. Her body knows before she does. The small hairs at her nape stand on end in premonition. The blood in her veins pulses and pulls toward him in recognition.

He raises his head and she gasps. Her knees threaten to buckle underneath her.

Time slows. She shakes her head to dispel the illusion, assured that the madness of her waking moments has at last invaded the day's later hours.

 _It can't be._

Her eyes settle once more on the figure before her, and the queen gives way to the wife who suddenly cannot trust what she sees before her. Through her own blurry vision, she watches as tears spill over silently out of familiar blue eyes – eyes that she will know until her dying breath.

 _It is not possible._

She wrenches away her gaze for just a moment to glance at Bash, who nods his head and moves timidly toward the doorway.

The catch of the latch signals her deputy's retreat.

She steps tentatively forward until only a handsbreadth separates them. He slowly rises from the floor and her hand reaches, shaking, to wipe away an errant teardrop on his face. Her fingers trace the neat mustache and the tuft of hair at his chin before lighting upon the deepening evidence of years that now lines his eyes.

"Is it really you?" she whispers, her voice cracking with disbelief.

"Please forgive me, my love," he starts softly. He falters as the weight of the reality of _her_ – flesh and bone, and once more returned to him – threatens to crush him.

"There was no other way."

* * *

 **February 18, 1565**

Wrapped in a warm cloak with her skirts to the side, she rides behind Bash as he leads her to a small croft just beyond the village of Dunkeld. The new moon illuminates little of the road ahead.

The hours since Francis left under the guise of visiting his father have proved themselves to be long and tortuous, their misery only lifting with the exhilaration of slipping away from the castle unnoticed after the night watch began. The shock of seeing him standing before her has faded with the hours – in its place the echo of his voice and its rushed accounting of the days since Narcisse threatened not only him but her and Catherine, and a growing desire to know him once more as her husband.

He left as quickly as he had arrived, careful not to draw the suspicion of anyone who might notice the closeness between them – a familiarity that could only have preceded their meeting at Wemyss. In his absence, she lapsed into a haze of stunned madness and remained in the solar until her maidservant came to stoke the dwindling fire. After a late dinner in his and Kenna's quarters, Bash put forth the skeleton of his plan.

Within the fortnight, they will all return to Edinburgh. Until then, this brief midnight tryst will have to be enough. She knows they can neither risk discovery of their intimacy nor introduce Francis to the Court too soon. With each gait of the horse beneath her, she thinks on those few who will know him upon sight and determines, somehow, that she will convince them the truth must remain undisclosed.

Only the lesser part of an hour has passed since their leave of the fortress walls, but the distance has stretched unendingly, achingly before her – each step a lifetime to her eager heart.

Bash helps her dismount and secures the horses before leading her into the home. A warm fire greets them as they enter the kitchen and Francis joins them from the next room. She watches as her good-brother walks quickly through the two rooms to assure himself of their safety and then departs through the door.

Though the night is cold and the clouds threaten with snow, she knows he will guard that door with his life.

"Let me take that," Francis speaks quietly. He lifts the cloak off of her shoulders and places it upon a peg fitted into the wall. Her fingers fidget, suddenly nervous at the thought of being alone with him. He reaches for her elbow, guiding her into the next room and latching the door behind him.

The chamber has no window, which both prevents escape of the heat from the kitchen's hearth and safeguards them from prying eyes. A candle rests upon a table next to a basin for washing, giving off sufficient light to make out the room's sparse furnishings.

In the moment she sits upon the bed, her nerves overcome her. She fears it has been too long, that they will have forgotten how to come together as man and wife. She questions her ability to bring him pleasure. Her years alone have wrested her of any confidence. There have been no lovers in her bed – only shadows of him that flee as she wakes.

He lowers himself next to her and uses his thumb to lift her chin and meet her eyes. Leaning in, he captures her lips gently and she feels herself respond.

She tastes his lips, somehow both familiar and new, and her anxieties dissipate.

 _Francis lives._

* * *

 **Author's Notes** : You are all so wonderful with your reviews and requests for more! It continues to be a slow process for so many reasons, but it's a story I'm determined to finish and to finish well. I feel like a show claiming it was going to be creative within the framework of history should have been a little more creative within the framework of history, don't you? Anyway, thank you all for continuing to read and review!

Special thanks to Robin and Heather for the continued beta efforts and suggestions on how to bridge gaps and make the story seem like it naturally just branched off of 207. Lyrics at the top are from Catie King's "Lay You Down". I don't own them – they just give me major F/M feels every time I hear them, so I was excited to be able to work them into this installment.


	8. SEVEN (Francis)

**July 29, 1565**

"But Mary – can we trust him?"

He paces the floor, his voice low.

"We have no choice, Francis," she urges. "He knows who you are." Her hand reaches up to his face, scratching lightly at the stubble she finds there. He shakes his head and her hand falls away as he returns to his anxious march.

"He tried to take you from me before," he mutters, staring hard at the stones beneath his feet. When he arrives at the end of the wall, he turns and takes two steps before he collides with a firm hand blocking his path.

"And, need I remind you, my love – he _failed_ ," she lifts his chin so she can meet his eyes. She chuckles softly. "Mostly because you locked me away in that horrid tower."

He glances sideways, trying his damnedest not to smile at the memory. Leaning one shoulder against the wall under the window, he sighs as his thoughts return to the matter at hand.

"James Hepburn swears your brother is plotting some kind of coup," he shakes a finger at her, realizing in that moment just how childish the action must appear. "But can we even trust _him_ , Mary?"

She grabs hold of the finger, bringing it slowly down to his side.

"James Hepburn swore his allegiance to both of us a long time ago. You sought him out after you revealed yourself to me and he arranged for your hiding in Dunkeld. He has assured me – indeed, _both_ of us – that his loyalty has not changed." She pauses long enough to weave her fingers gently with his. "I trust him with my life. If he says James is plotting, it is quite likely to be true." Ambling along toward the door, she adds, "The one thing in our favor is that my brother often betrays his intent before he launches his intrigues. We simply have to trust that the few people who know the truth will remain silent on the matter. We have no choice."

They arrive at the door and he quietly pushes back the beam that bars the chamber from unwanted visitors.

Opening the door, he makes a show of his deep bow. His voice bellows, echoing down the corridor for all to hear, "As you wish, Your Grace." He straightens and winks, knowing only she bears witness to the glint of excitement in his eyes. "I will see you this evening at the chapel."

He turns and proceeds down the corridor, his steps as slow and evenly measured as he can make them. He reminds himself to shave before the evening arrives. As much as he has come to appreciate a full beard, he knows he must continue to keep it at bay – he cannot chance being recognized by the tradesmen he worked with only months ago.

These last months and his reintroduction to Court have unsettled him, but his willingness to do what must be done to be at Mary's side prevails over his fears. Only a few – Mary's brother and the Earl of Bothwell among them – know him to be other than Henry Stuart, Mary's cousin and the Lord Darnley. He knows these men cannot be trusted fully, yet he has no choice but to entrust his future to them.

In spite of all that lies unknown in the days ahead, he cannot keep himself from his mounting elation. He hears birdsong drift into the corridors as he moves toward his chambers, and acquires a slight jaunt in his step as he turns his mind away from his dread of what may come and onto the arrival of a great happiness that breeds hope.

Mary will be his bride – again – tonight.

* * *

 **September 25, 1565**

He nods his head to signal the offensive and the racket of cannon outside carries in through the fortification walls. Since his last visit to inspect the armaments, Inchkeith has turned to quell his brother-in-law's insipid rebellion. He and his wife have hunted James all over Scotland, soldiers standing ready for battle at their heels – and, yet, James has not relented in his protest.

He knows well the scale and capability of the munitions here, as well as the limitations of the _Aide_ and the dwindling state of the rebellion. Such things remain part of his role as Mary's husband, but he takes no joy in them. They require too many nights away from his wife, too many evenings away from Anne.

The vessel will retreat as soon as the wind changes, and with it he suspects this last major attempt at rebellion will fail. Along with his few remaining followers, James will certainly run to England to lick his wounds. He will continue to defend his treasonous actions by claiming that his sister's marriage was improperly sanctioned, that the queen and her consort seek to restore the Scottish kingdom to its previous state of Catholicism.

If only James were a bit less impetuous and a bit more willing to get to know his sister, he might know of her compassion toward Protestantism and its followers – but, instead, his impulsive fervor has led to this awful chaseabout raid.

 _What a shameful waste of time and cannon and lives_.

The irony settles on him, as it did upon his first visit to the isle – that he should be here in this place that his father longed to see. One of his clearest memories of his father consists of the king's utter delight in receiving English banners after a battle to rout the English from the fortified isle. Francis had been but a boy at the time but, even then, he recognized the obsessive gleam in his father's eyes. His father had laughed wildly, then turned to his court and proclaimed, "How I wish I could have seen it with my own eyes!"

The cannonfire breaks and men rush to reload while the _Aide_ remains in their sights, their shouts stirring him from his contemplation. He steps to the opening in the wall and holds up his hand to shield his eyes from the rare midday sunlight. Spying the enemy ship in the distance, he notes its withdrawal from the inlet.

Changing course, the ship turns northward. He watches as it disappears in the distance.

A soldier appears at his side to inform him that the bombardment has finished.

Imprudent to travel so far in the dark, he must suffer one more night away from his bride in this absurd pursuit; however, nothing will delay his departure for Stirling at first light. As he begins the walk to his quarters that he might dispatch a missive concerning the victory, he finds himself nearly running in his haste. He longs to speak to his wife with more than quill and ink – but, for tonight, it will have to do.

* * *

 **March 9, 1566**

He hates that it has come to this. All of their scheming and plotting and shouting about the crown matrimonial and the pretense of a cold, argumentative marriage has proven fruitless in its attempt to cast aside the suspicions of his wife's secretary.

Narcisse may have escaped his blade, but David Rizzio will not. His blackmail will die with him, the poor dimwitted man that he is. He doesn't understand the necessity of multiple persons in order to protect oneself. Francis can barely conceive how the man's limited intelligence led to the discovery of the king consort's true identity.

Unfortunately, David will meet his end tonight at a party as the local nobility drown in their ales and stuff themselves with roasted venison and honeyed oatcakes. Somehow, James talked him into making the man's execution a very public spectacle. Attempting to broker peace between Mary and her brother, he had agreed. The whole thing merely sets into motion a larger plot, devised under the very possible likelihood that he and Mary will someday need to flee in order to safeguard their lives – and that James's cooperation will be integral to the maturity of those plans.

He wonders if they should simply run now, rather than undertake such an ambitious gamble – but he thinks of the child, its presence swelling under Mary's skirts, and he resolves to defend his family until his dying breath. If a single cowardly, manipulative man stands in the way, then that man must be destroyed.

His page secures the last of the buttons on his coat, sweeping his hands across the garment to dispel any lingering wrinkles. The young boy retrieves a crown from its place in the wardrobe, setting it atop the king consort's head.

He longs for the day when he will no longer bear the weight of a crown upon his shoulders.

A knock at the door of his chambers interrupts his thoughts and his page disappears to see who has disturbed his master's preparations for the evening meal. The boy returns quickly and bows in greeting.

"The Queen, Your Grace," he states and departs.

He looks to find his wife where the lad once stood in the wardrobe's entrance, an exhausted demeanor etched into her features. The babe in her womb has kept her from sleep the last few nights, its desire to kick and turn a higher priority than letting its mother rest. Reaching for her, he draws her close and stretches his fingers over her protruding abdomen.

"It will all be done with soon, my love," he assures. He tucks an errant lock of hair behind her right ear and affixes a gentle kiss to her temple.

"The babe or the matter with David?" she mutters wearily, her body tense against his.

"Both," he whispers. He feels her body slowly relax, its weight settling into his supportive stance.

His page finds them in this fashion when he appears to summon them to the party downstairs. The pair straightens. Mary smooths her skirts and inspects her appearance in a mirror just inside the doorway. He adjusts his crown and pats his hand upon the pommel of his sword, assuring himself of its presence and reminding himself of what the night will hold.

"Are you ready?" He offers his arm to Mary, and she threads her hand through to rest in the crook of his elbow. She nods, her eyes clear in determination.

"I am. Let us go."

* * *

 **June 19, 1566**

He missed all of this the first time, with Anne. The beauty of his sleeping wife, fully spent in the wake of labor and childbirth. The warm, swaddled body asleep against his chest. The utter exhaustion. The muted whimpering that escalates to wailing, tiny lungs not yet capable of producing a more mature cry.

Her first cries had been the last he had heard for many months. He did not have these moments in the hours after her entrance into this world, when all the clamor had died down, to hold her close and to smell her newness and to begin knowing this little life they had created.

He has had many moments with Anne since, but he does not have those moments.

These moments with James – these moments he will treasure.

Certain that the hour grows much later than conducive to the early morning duties he must take on in Mary's stead, he still cannot bring himself to relinquish James to the midwife or to the nurse. As tired as he may be, he holds no desire to leave or return to his separate chambers for the rest of the night.

The fire dwindles and a chambermaid appears to stoke it. His eyelids droop heavily – one, then another. He shakes his head swiftly from side to side, returning himself to a state of alertness.

James begins to root around, softly fussing in his quest for sustenance. Before the boy's whimpers can grow to howls that will wake all who slumber in this wing of the castle, he moves the boy from his chest to his arms and pads softly to Mary's side. Cradling the babe in one arm, he gently uses the opposite hand to rouse his wife.

"Mary, my love," he speaks quietly, evenly, as she begins to stir. "The lad is ready."

He watches as she pushes herself up in the bed, situating pillows behind her shoulders and back to support her in her fatigued state, and then reaches out her arms for the little one.

Placing him into his wife's hands, he presses a kiss to her forehead, her hair curling in damp ringlets from the perspiration of her earlier exertion.

"I love you," he murmurs against her hair. "Do you need me to fetch you anyone or anything before I retire? I would stay here all night," he pauses, stroking the crown of his wife's head. "But I need to meet James Hepburn in the morning and before the council convenes." The motion relaxes him and he startles as he nearly falls against the bedframe.

"Go," she urges, smiling, drowsily content as the babe begins to suckle. "Sleep. You can send in the midwife as you leave."

He nods and begins to pull his hand away from her, turning to leave.

"Francis," she whispers – his name only audible enough that he barely hears it – and the fervor and sweetness with which she addresses him with his true name staggers him and ceases his movement toward the door.

"Yes, my love?" he whispers in return, harkening back to her side and leaning in close. In the dim light, he takes note of the emotion swelling behind her lovely dark eyes. She smiles wearily.

"We have a son."

* * *

 **December 1566**

The solitude pleases him after the constant press and commotion of life at Court, though he yearns to see his wife; and the home seems quiet – too quiet – in the absence of both James and Anne. The caretakers of the family estates while the Lennoxes remain exiled in England, Henry Stuart's aunt and uncle have offered him a room for as long as he has need of one.

If he stays here just a short while longer, perhaps he might encourage the notion that he and Mary still find themselves engaged in marital discord. Try as they might to fight regularly and openly about the line of succession, he knows the servants have espied him coming too frequently from her chambers as of late. He misses her warmth next to him as he sleeps, his feet colder since his arrival.

If they persist in abandoning caution for the purpose of being together, they will quickly have need of the last of their plans – plans they had hoped never to actualize. Nonetheless, he realizes, he must put thought toward the necessary components for seeing through this last plot. Unfortunately, a few of the items they will need in the coming days remain a mystery.

He retrieves the piece of parchment from the coffer just inside his trunk. Carrying it over to the table, he sits down to revisit the short coded message:

 _To Her Grace, Mary, Queen of Scotland, and to her Consort, the Duke of Albany:_

 _Greetings from France. My children request that I convey their love for you and for your family, that their prayers are with you all in these perilous times._

 _As to your inquiry concerning my former servant, the seer and healer Nostradamus, I have received written word of his death from his wife. She included instructions for crafting the serum used to treat Her Grace when she was but a child here in France. I hope it serves you well, and brings length and health to your lives._

 _If ever you are able, please visit. Charles eagerly awaits an introduction to his godson. Your former chambers stand in wait of your arrival. May God's grace and favor enable us to be together once more._

 _Her Majesty,  
_ _Catherine, Queen Mother of France_

Obscured by the wear of travel and moisture from the days in transport across the channel, the serum's recipe cannot be made out in its entirety. One of the ingredients has become entirely illegible, the letters blurring into unrecognizability. The measure for another lacks a readable number. He sighs, running a hand through his hair before placing the letter back into his trunk.

"Truly, it will be a risk if it comes to that," he mutters to himself. "But what other choice would we have?" He vaguely remembers watching Nostradamus mix the potion the first time, so distracted was he by the fact his wife would think him dead – but he hopes the little he does remember will help him to recreate the solution. _If only his mother had arrived with her letter!_

Scratching the hair at his chin, he summons a servant and requests the one ingredient that will be the trickiest to find in the bleak of the mid-winter's chill. He resolves not to return to his wife's side until he correctly assembles the mixture. The prospect of peril towers tall on every side.

This might be the only way out.

He must be ready.

* * *

 **Author's Notes** : I am, once more, incredibly sorry for the stupidly long amount of time that it has taken to publish this chapter. As this (and the next) chapters were not a part of my original map for the story, they had to be fleshed out in detail and then researched (like I didn't know I could research) until all of the pieces and parts of the story I wanted to weave through MQOS's life fit just right. Additionally, I realized I needed to write the rest of the story all together for the same reason. I hope you enjoy the result. As the next chapter and the epilogue are already written, I am simply working with my betas to make them the best they can be, and you should see them publish in the next few weeks as they are finished.

More than 18 months into this story, I couldn't be more grateful for my betas, Heather and Robin. Thank you, you lovely ladies, for continuing to hang in there with me after so long and when you both are so busy with your own lives. You've made this story better.


	9. EIGHT (Mary)

**October 1566**

The wind air whips about her face as she rides on into the fourth hour, crossing into Liddesdale. Over the horizon lies Hermitage Castle, the ancestral home of the Hepburn family. She has often visited James and his new bride here, but never has she raced so speedily to their side. Trying not to dwell on the dark possibilities that linger in her mind, she urges her horse onward.

One by one, she and her party make their way across the first of the burns that feed the River Tay. Bash slows to report to her their whereabouts, but even without his words she knows their hasty journey draws to a close ahead of them.

They come to the edge of the plain and guide the horses down to ford the Water just below the castle as the sun sets westward. The water splashes icily against the horses' legs and dampens her skirts. She shivers, grateful for the hearthfires she knows await them just ahead.

Bash announces their arrival at the gate, and a few young stablehands appear to take their horses for the night and to off-load their saddlebags.

She rushes inside, eager to find the Earl of Bothwell's wife, the Lady Jean. A maidservant leads her into the solar and bids her to sit by the fire to warm herself while she fetches the lady of the castle.

Instead, she paces the floor, back and forth – questioning whether she and Francis have made the right decisions for the future of their family. The moments stretch out, her skin crawling in anticipation while the peat cracks and smokes inside the hearth. Her body slowly thaws and her fingers work to massage the soreness from the sinews of her muscles after the strain of the day's ride. For the first time today, she indulges herself in a flight of desire that Francis could be there to help free her of the day's anxieties. She wonders where he sleeps tonight, whether he has managed to return to Holyrood after a routine inspection of the region's armaments.

Jean enters the room and waves her hand, dismissing the maidservant at her heels. She closes the door and bars it securely before crossing the room and beckoning Mary to sit.

"Your Grace – Mary, my dear," Jean begins, reaching for the queen's hands, "Sit." She waits while Mary settles herself nervously onto the cushion next to her. "How glad I am you have come, and so quickly."

"How is he?" Mary asks in rushed uncertainty, her heart pulsing wildly with a fear compounded by so many miles of worry and doubt.

"The fever broke early this morning, and the physician insists the worst of it has passed," Jean assures her. "James has been beside himself, worrying over the boy, but even he has finally been convinced to sleep – and I am so grateful that he has. Those wounds from the damned border reivers have yet to heal fully." The woman rubs wearily at her eyes, then places a hand upon the queen's shoulder. "I presume the little boy born to James's servant girl is well?"

Mary meets her query with an eager nod of her head and a soft smile. "He is."

"You may see the babe tonight, if you wish," Jean offers. Receiving another nod in answer, the two women stand and walk toward the door. The lady leads them down corridors until they arrive at a bedroom apart from the rest of the castle. Jean pushes open the door and they enter, softly striding across the stones.

Upon their lady's appearance, the nurse and chambermaid exit the room. Mary rushes to the cradle near the hearth, listening for every small sign of life.

She crosses herself, murmuring softly: "Praise and glory be to the lovingkindness of God, for He has spared my only son." Hot tears slowly carve their way down her cheeks as she looks on the boy – the very image of his father.

"Is it all right for me to … ?" she asks, her voice trailing off as she leans toward the cradle. Jean nods her assent and looks on as Mary gathers the tightly swaddled babe into her arms. She steps toward the door, knowing she will not be missed.

"Hello, my little one," Mary coos, settling into a turned chair near the hearth.

She will hold him until the sun appears at dawn – and then, perhaps, she will sleep.

* * *

 **January 1567**

She makes a show of her daily trek to the old provost's lodging at Kirk o' Field. The days dwindle, each one bringing them closer to freedom. Somehow, she managed to convince the nobles at Craigmillar to give her a few more months before pursuing drastic action against her husband, but the meeting led to a need for the final stages of their plans. In spite of the risky intricacies she must now oversee, she finds herself a bit impressed at how well they have deceived the nobility into believing Scotland's king consort to be a fool, a tyrant, and entirely unfit to rule at her side.

Rapping at the door, a manservant bids her to come inside. He leads her to her husband's rooms and then returns to his post.

She opens the door and finds Francis sitting next to the hearth, lost in his thoughts.

"My love?" she asks quietly, crossing over to join him.

He startles at the sound of her voice, then relaxes. "Ah, Mary," he breathes out, looking up to her.

Lowering herself to a seat at his side, she notices how thin he looks, a few marks upon his face. Perhaps the rumors of his being ill are more than mere rumors. She reaches up to touch one of the spots and he covers her hand with his own.

"It is only a rash," he asserts. "The cook did not know of my intolerance for sea campion and added its leaves to dinner a few nights past. Apparently," he chuckles, "the man has no regard for lore or superstition if it means he must sacrifice flavor."

"Well," she smiles, joining him in his soft laughter. "Perhaps this will scare him into granting more credence to his grandmother's stories."

He pulls her close and she leans into him, savoring his scent and the warm weight of his chin upon her head. Quiet moments together, such as this, are rare. She suddenly understands that the weariness in her bones merely echoes that of her heart. She longs for the two of them to be free and she senses the imminent arrival of such a thing – but the few remaining obstacles that lay between them and that freedom reside in many dark and lonely days ahead.

"Mary," he breaks the silence, his voice low. "I have the last ingredient. A servant delivered it this morning." He says everything he needs to with those words.

"When?" she inquires, staggered by shock. She reminds herself to take air into her lungs.

"Not yet," he pauses – seeking out her eyes before he continues. "But soon. I will not tell you the day or the hour, so your shock at the news might be truly your own."

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and she knows he lingers – this might be the last opportunity for them to be alone together until their plots have been seen through to their ends.

"Mary," his voice cracks and she cannot bear the fear she detects in his eyes. "I don't know if I'll get it right. If something goes awry," he halts briefly before continuing. "Send for my mother."

* * *

 **February 10, 1567**

Her maidservant shakes her awake, her voice urgent, "Your Grace! Your deputy commands me to wake you immediately. He requests your presence in the solar."

She wipes at her eyes, attempting to dispel the last fragments of her wine-induced dreams. The wedding feast to celebrate Bastian and his new bride had lasted long into the night. She wonders just how little time she has actually been asleep as the girl wraps her in a night robe and she stumbles into the solar adjacent to her sleeping quarters. A brief glimpse of the window reveals the dawning light only beginning to color the night sky.

Bash stands next to the fire, adrenaline coursing through his features, fingers tapping a skittish pattern against his leg. Her maidservant lingers in the doorway.

He turns to face her and she sees the truth of some mishap in his eyes.

"What is it?" she questions, hesitant, fearful of what news he might bring. "What terrible thing has happened that you might drag me from my bed before dawn?"

"There has been an explosion at Kirk o' Field, Your Grace," he relays. Looking away, he continues. "The king's body was found in the garden just a little while ago."

She gasps, her knees crumpling underneath her in a combination of shock and exhaustion. The news itself does not surprise her, but the oddness of the hour and the knowledge that she saw Francis in the hours before the festivities began and that he did not betray his intent – such things have caught her unaware. Her maidservant helps her to the sofa, which she falls into gracelessly.

Francis had been wise not to tell her how many days were left. Grief overwhelms her as she recognizes it may be some time before she rests in his arms, that – indeed, if the concoction was not properly mixed – once again, she may have lost her husband forever.

The very thought undoes her. She knows her heart will not survive a second loss of him.

In a matter of moments, Her quiet grief turns to hysterics as her thoughts collect and her emotion swells. Her sobbing body convulses, full of dread that their plans have failed here at the last, that her husband will not wake when this is over.

 _For Anne and for James_ , he had said last night when she broached the dangers of using a potion unpredictable in its result. _We have no choice but to try._

Now, in this moment, her cheeks wet with tears and her body perched at an uncomfortably awkward angle, she wonders if she ought to have pressed him further to verify the instructions – to write once more to his mother to see whether the measurements were correct.

But he had decided it was time, she registers, gulping in air as she begins to feel faint.

She prays as she weeps, pleading with her God that she might see him again in the land of the living. Her maidservant leads her away from the solar.

The sun sits high when she stirs from her bed.

Life without Francis begins again.

* * *

 **April 24, 1567**

She rereads the letter from her cousin, praying that Bash has managed to deliver her response and that England's queen might be receptive to its contents.

 _Men say that, instead of seizing the murderers, you are looking through your fingers while they escape; that you will not seek revenge on those who have done you so much pleasure, as though the deed would never have taken place had not the doers of it been assured of impunity. For myself, I beg you to believe that I would not harbour such a thought._

It is the one sentence alone that gives her hope. She and Elizabeth might not trust one another in many ways, but if a proposition protects England – if her words can only convince her cousin of her earnestness in this endeavor – then perhaps Elizabeth can play an instrumental role in its success.

The carriage jars at what she assumes to be a rut in the road. She rubs at her eyes and adjusts her skirts, wondering how much longer she must wait before they arrive at Dunbar Castle. She dare not reveal herself to the open air, not willing to risk being seen and to let it be known she has not been taken by force by James Hepburn and his men after all.

Impatient, she picks at the hem of her cloak, silently bidding the horses to hurry. More than three months have passed since her chambermaid entered her rooms and bade her come hear the tragic news of her husband's 'demise' from her deputy. Despite her personal knowledge that the happening was not as it appeared, the nights since have been lonely and fraught with the fear that, this time, he might not be so fortunate as to wake from Nostradamus's draught of living death.

For wake he did not.

After only a few of those nights, she began praying ardently for Catherine's swift arrival from France and for word from James that Francis had finally woken. The nights stretched into fortnights and the fortnights into months, and her anxiety mounted as she returned to an empty bed every evening – the memory of his last seemingly permanent absence still too freshly etched and interwoven into her every thought of him.

Much of the last six years has faded into the grey murkiness of her deepest darkness following what she understood to be his death, but that moment before he was interred – her profound sense of both loss and its consequent emptiness – will forever retain its pristine pain. The thought of truly living without him, even if that day has continued to be delayed into the future, chokes her breath in her throat and sends tears unwittingly down her cheeks.

The carriage slows and then stops, the horses reined in by their driver. She bats at her eyes, breathing deeply to steady herself as she waits. James appears, a shaft of sunlight brightly pouring in through the door behind him.

"Dunbar, Your Grace," he says as he offers his hand to help her from the carriage.

The two of them walk toward the castle. As they walk, they draw the attention of men stationed there with the task of repairing the armaments after that foolish chaseabout led by her brother. The men bow their heads in reverence as she passes and then return to their work.

"This way, Mary," James whispers, leading her down a corridor to the northernmost tower. They climb the steps, and she feels her hurried footsteps falter beneath her at her failure to move her skirts aside. Her companion settles a hand at her elbow. "Take care. The steps are steeper than you might expect."

Eager as she may be, she slows her steps. They continue their trek upward until they arrive at a small landing and a wooden door. She breathes in, looks to James for affirmation, and presses her weight upon the panel. As it gives way, she quietly rushes forward into the room.

She sees him standing at the window and the few steps to his side vanish as she runs and casts herself into his arms. His hands stroke her hair, clutching her tightly against him.

"They could not wake you," she whimpers, overwhelmed at the task of finding additional words to convey the overwhelming emotions laying siege to her whole being. "And then your mother was delayed," she shakes her head against him and closes her eyes at the thought. "We didn't know – "

"It's all right, my love," he murmurs, cutting her off. "Everything is all right," he assures again. She hears the movement of the door and turns to see James has left them alone.

"Here," he takes her hand and leads her to the cradle by the fire, from which emanate soft snores from a pair of tiny nostrils. "Someone has been waiting for you."

* * *

 **June 15, 1567**

Kirkcaldy holds her bridle, guiding her down the hill. She watches as James Hepburn rides away toward Dunbar, knowing his exile draws nigh. She reflects upon all that has transpired in the last months as she looks on the man the kingdom believes to be her husband. He and Francis had both insisted marriage would be the best way to keep her safe until this very moment of surrender, and Jean had agreed. The kindly woman had stepped aside and allowed James to annul their marriage, to stain her with scandal once his remarriage to the queen had taken place.

While James and Jean had been kindred friends for many years, they had never been lovers – merely accomplices in their attempts to quiet their parents' urgings to marry well. Since the annulment, the Huntly lands and title had been restored to her family, and James had seen to it that she be given full access to and control over her dowry.

Mary smiles, thinking of all the freedom Jean will have, freedom she has always so desperately craved – and then she shudders, overwhelmed by the acknowledged sacrifices so many beloved countrymen have made on her behalf. Among them, she regrets that James will leave his illegitimate son behind. They had exchanged the lad for her own child shortly after he was born – a decision made from the same heart that asked Bash and Kenna to claim Anne as their own. A bastard will someday soon be king of both Scotland and England, and he will never know his father's love for him. A prayer of blessing passes over her lips on the boy's behalf. She crosses herself, grateful for her family's safety.

Still, the end has finally come and she finds herself stunned by the unfolding understanding that she will never again see Edinburgh or Holyrood. Per their agreement, her brother will require the abdication of her throne in the coming days. For the sake of her people, she has appeared to put forth every last measure of strength until this last defeat at Carberry. Now, she must place her trust in plots long ago set into motion and in Elizabeth's cunning – things she does not know whether she can fully trust – that they might be sufficient to preserve her life.

She places a hand over the slight swell of her abdomen under her dress. Perhaps this little one will arrive in a world where he or she does not need to be hidden from those who would consider it honorable to harm her children. She returns the hand to her reins.

At the bottom of the hill, they turn their horses toward Loch Leven. She suspects the days to come will prove difficult, that she may be mistreated at the hands of these men who believe her to be a queen defeated and not a woman who wishes to restore peace to her people by forfeiting a crown she never chose to wear.

But at the end of those days ahead, she knows that he will come for her – stealing through the last Scottish nights she will ever know – and they will take to the sea.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** It's not so close to when I had originally hoped to publish this chapter, but it turns out my first version wasn't quite as clear as I had hoped, either! Thanks for bearing with a little more delay than anticipated while I took the needed time to change a few things. If you're unfamiliar with and interested in the later details of the life of Mary, Queen of Scots, I recommend a trip through Wikipedia's pages on her, the Lord Darnley, the Earl of Bothwell, the Lady Jean Gordon, the Chaseabout Raid, etc. There are a lot of crazy details and I've aimed to weave this story through them in the most plausible way I could. I will hopefully publish the last bit, an epilogue, sometime this week and finally put an end to the insanity that has been this project. Thanks for continuing to read and encouraging me in completing this tale.

Special thanks to Heather, who was (understandably) confused on her first read and asked just the right questions to make this chapter so much better.


	10. Epilogue (Mary)

**Florence**

 **April 24, 1578**

She exits the front door of the villa and spies him strolling down the _strada_ , arms swinging freely as he whistles a melody his mother taught him when he was young. His hair still shines brightly, strands of white sprinkled among the gold. Here, in the city of Catherine's birth, they have remained under the careful protection of his family for more than ten years.

Here, they have dwelled outside the circles of kingdoms and crowns. Here, they have begun each morning entwined as the day fills their rooms with light. Here, they have mourned the loss of the two children she had carried in her womb before Carberry - before Loch Leven. Here, they have heard Anne call them _maman et papa_ for the first time and looked on as James took his first wobbled steps. Here, they have welcomed three more babes and watched them grow.

Here, she has borne the guilt of Elizabeth's decision to execute a political prisoner in her stead - so that she might live the rest of her days freely and in peace. Here, they have rejoiced over news of James Hepburn and his reconciliation with his love, Anna, in Denmark. Here, they have mourned the deaths of their brothers.

Here, they have wrestled with what it means to be just a girl and just a boy.

They have lost count of the days and found solace in the routines of caring for their children and in the absence of royal obligation and, here, they have grown old together.

He halts before her and offers his arm. After all these years away from court, she notices that he still bears himself with a noble dignity. She hooks her hand through his elbow and they walk down to the water's edge to witness the day's fading light.

"It has been twenty years now, my love," he tells her as they arrive at an empty overlook. They have often ventured here, its location hidden from the eyes and ears of interlopers. "Twenty years since you ran into my arms in the corridor and then became my wife."

She smiles at the memory, the sting of its surrounding circumstances long blurred by the passage of time. He lifts a hand to her face and she leans into it, his thumb slowly stroking her brow. The light fades a little as the sun's rays dip below the horizon, the water sparkling with the beauty and splendor of its dance. For a moment, the years between them and their youth vanish. They misplace Florence for a castle wall at dusk, hundreds of miles and another lifetime away.

"You said once you couldn't do this, that you wouldn't," she ducks her head shyly, keeping her voice low as she emerges from their shared reverie. She looks up to meet his eyes, her heart overfull with emotion as she thinks on what the last twenty years have held and what they have cost. "My dear Francis - whatever changed your mind?"

"You did, Mary," he responds quietly. He presses a kiss to her temple and pulls her tight against himself. "It has always been you."

* * *

 **Many, many thanks** to all of you who have stuck with this story until this, its end. You are a lovely lot and I have so appreciated that you have spent some of your time reading the words of this crazy writer who just wanted to give Francis and Mary a more creative, satisfying ending. **A grand thank you** to Heather and Robin, my beautiful betas, for making this story better. Your assistance has been invaluable. And, now, I will move onto other stories that are less complex and require FAR less research. ;)


End file.
